


now that the chips are down

by mooncrash



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, M/M, Mistaken Identity, POV Second Person, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, cologne as a plot point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:28:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25949611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mooncrash/pseuds/mooncrash
Summary: “Play nicely, chérie, we have company.” A glance down the alley and sure enough, the enemy Medic is standing there, bonesaw waiting in hand. The BLU Spy’s thumb strokes along an exposed patch of skin along your stomach as a sort of bizarre apology. The tenderness of the invisible gesture catches you off guard. “You’re still a bastard,” you hiss without much venom, and you can feel his amused chuckle more so than hear it as he slits your throat.An enemies to lovers fic inspired by "When the Chips are Down" from Hadestown.
Relationships: Spy (Team Fortress 2)/Reader, Spy (Team Fortress 2)/You
Comments: 13
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We love art! We love writing! We love... this!  
> I am a simple person- I hear a song that could relate even in the slightest bit to one of my favourite characters, and I enter a fugue state and write 4.8k words about it. I'd honestly recommend viewing this one in "entire work" mode, most of the chapters aren't long (but we will get to the Long Boi soon).  
> Standard songfic rules apply, each chapter is based off of a verse from "When the Chips are Down" from the musical _Hadestown_ and I made the executive decision to skip the chorus and post the first two chapters at the same time. The remaining four chapters will go up every other day!

You need to get out of the habit of tapping your fingers. The drumming can echo through the walls of these old buildings, as Engineer had explained yesterday, and can attract unwanted attention your way. Instead, you opt to skim the pad of your thumb over your short nails, gazing down at the action below you from the windowsill. You’re not breaking any new ground today, staying put exactly where Sniper told you to before the match began and “getting your eye in”, as he put it. He knows these old gravel mills well; this spot has a good view and you haven’t been disturbed once.

Like you’ve summoned a devil directly out of your thoughts, there’s a chuckle from behind you followed by the whisper of wind in still air. Shit. And you were doing so well on your first day. “So this is where you’ve been hiding, _débutant.”_ Different team, same irritating voice. Your eyes dart across the room to where you know your gun is. You really didn’t think you’d need it today, but consider this a lesson learned. Running the mental maths yields an unsatisfying outcome every time. If this Spy is half as good as your team’s, you won’t make it. There’s nothing else for it.

Shifting your weight onto the balls of your feet, you keep your back to the enemy Spy as long as possible. Sure enough, you can almost _feel_ the annoyance radiating off of him as he gets closer. By this point, he’s not even bothering to hide the sound of his footfalls and is likely wondering why the hell you haven’t turned to face him yet. You’re pretty sure you’re about to give yourself a migraine with how hard you’re straining to listen for something else, though. A quiet series of clicks, the _snick_ of a latch _,_ and you finally go for your own knife.

The BLU Team Spy brings his balisong down, his arms blocked by yours as you duck and spin, flicking out the switchblade and driving it into his gut with your free hand. A shout of pain, a grunt as you kick him away, a clatter as his knife falls. You wipe your bloody blade on your pant leg, pocket his butterfly knife from where he dropped it. Now you’re in no rush. Crossing the room with no great haste, you pick up your gun and let it sit comfortable in your grip. The rattle of the Spy’s breath is audible from here, and you crouch down just out of arm’s reach, tapping the pistol against your calf and thumbing the safety as you hum a vaguely jazzy tune. It's kind of funny, you muse as you look him over. This is closer than you've been to your own team's Spy. Hell, you can smell his cologne from here, a dark and woodsy smell that'd you wouldn't have caught if you were any further away. It seems both Spies have a peerless dedication to two things: showboating and being assholes. You're almost touched by how this man still manages to glare at you while bleeding out from the abdomen. Hell, you might’ve even been intimidated if there wasn’t a gun in your hand. He’s not too bad a spy either, just a little too confident. Business is business, though.

“Before you go, Spy, just wanted to say: nice to meet you. And don’t count on a mercy kill next time.” His smile is mostly just bared blood-speckled teeth. You return it in kind.

_BANG._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A translation, for people who like to be insulted in French: _**débutant**_ means newbie.
> 
> Thank you! Xx


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hear you saying to me, "V, wasn't your original plan to update this every other day? Why are you putting out like half of it now?", to which my response is, "Okay, I'm a little creeped out by how you knew my original plan for this, but also the first couple chapters are Baby Sized and I wanted to post more." Tada!

“Hey, a little help here?!” Scout shouts across the battlefield, hefting his bat out of the scattered remains of the BLU Heavy’s brains and scrambling behind a stack of concrete drainage pipes just in time to avoid the flames of the enemy Pyro. Your head shoots up and you wince sympathetically at the situation he’s found himself in. It’s one that’s familiar and deeply unpleasant, probably your least favourite way to die.

A sudden flash of muted blue out of the corner of your eye distracts you. It’s not the BLU Scout, you made sure of that just a minute ago, and even he couldn’t get back from respawn _that_ fast. You cast a quick glance at your Scout again, and you can tell he’s in dire straits. There’s a vantage point you can reach from your high ground on the embankment, you could probably get a good shot in at the Pyro and- 

A _whoosh_ whispers from behind you. _That son of a bitch._ On instinct, you turn away from Scout, your grip tightening on your gun. You’re willing to bet money you know who he’s going for, too.

Sniper’s been in top form today. He’s really been making life hell for the BLU Team, hitting headshot after headshot from his vantage point at the top of the fort tower. By contrast, you’ve heard nary a peep from the BLU Sniper. He must be having an off day. That, or your Spy’s been keeping him in respawn for the whole match. And now the enemy Spy’s trying to even the playing field.

As you scramble up the mill tower stairs, you hear the roar of a massive flame and Scout’s wail of fear, followed by panicked screams. Not your problem right now, you remind yourself.

The utter silence that follows rests heavy in your bones anyway.

Turning onto the second-to-last landing and stopping to catch your breath, you take a moment to try and listen past the rushing of your own blood. Surely the Spy got here before you? He definitely had a good lead on you. There’s no way you could have passed him on the stairs either, he would’ve shoved you through the rickety railing if he’d had the chance. Your hands are jerky, twitching with adrenaline. You came looking for a fight, and the fight’s disappeared from under your nose.

The door at the top of the stairs gives a tiny squeak, and you almost jump out of your skin. Fuck’s sake, you _knew_ you couldn’t have passed him. Now there’s only one small room between him and your Sniper, and he won’t be waiting for you to catch up this time. Taking the last flight of stairs two at a time, you aim blind and smash through both doors, your impact with the ground cushioned by a very put-out, very blue Spy.

“Crikey, what in the- “ Sniper’s staring at the both of you with wide eyes. “Shoulda known that bloody Spy’d come for me soon enough,” he chuckles humourlessly, drawing his kukri and taking a step towards the two of you. You look back down at the Spy and adjust to a seated position. Gotta get comfortable before you can be smug. You know your smile right now is kind of douchey, and frankly you can’t be bothered to care. Half a million goddamn flights of stairs, only to stop and wait for you to catch up to him. Condescending asshole. “Um. Mate?” Sniper’s voice cuts through your mental gloating. He’s standing a few feet away, looking at you kinda funny. “You gonna…” He waves his hand at the two of you. Belatedly, you realise that you are, in fact, still straddling the enemy Spy. “Right. Whoops. Sorry,” you say lamely, punching him in the face almost as an afterthought. After making a show of dusting your clean hands off on your pants, you gesture at the now knocked-out Spy, smiling at Sniper. “He’s all yours.”

You stand watch over Sniper for the rest of the match as he proceeds to pick off everyone except the cowering BLU Engineer and the Spy, who seems to have learned his lesson. Shithead.

* * *

Later that night over team dinner, Scout confirms that he did get barbecued after you left him with the enemy Pyro, but he shrugs it off when you apologise. “Hey, you did what had’ta be done. ‘Sides, we won anyway.” Demo snorts, not bothering to hold back on the truth with the RED Spy not in attendance. “Yer only sayin’ that because they went larkin’ out tae kill the BLU Spy, laddie. If they’da left ye for _anybody_ else, ye’d’ve cursed them out tae high heaven by now,” he accuses, gesturing with his bottle of scrumpy. Everyone else laughs, but you can feel your cheeks heat up- with indignation, no doubt. Fortunately, nobody else seems to notice as Scout’s face goes through a solid half-dozen comically overdramatic expressions before he declares loudly, “YEAH, because spies _SUCK.”_ You’re still the only one not laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got away with a whole chapter in which Spy doesn't speak fucking _once._ Pack it up folks, we're done here.


	3. interlude: romanza

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is _very_ short and sweet, hence the name. We out here Realizin Things™, though!

The team is beside themselves with laughter at something on TV and you’re playing along, but mentally you’re not even in the same room tonight. God, you’re lonely. It’s not in a needing-friends sort of way, but that also means it’s the sort of ache friends can’t fix. You miss _romance,_ goddamn it. Also, good alcohol. Not booze, _alcohol._ You’re nostalgic for nine-dollar Riesling at this point. Literally just any wine out of a glass bottle and not a box. And did you mention romance? Unbidden, your thoughts wander to gloved hands, candlelit dinners, spicy cologne, pearl-handled revolvers, a dance at midnight, smooth and sultry French whispered into your ear… And nope, it’s officially time to go the hell to bed. You are _not_ going to develop feelings for a teammate, especially not while tipsy on whatever the hell it is Demo brought in from town. Just your fucking luck too, Spy’s leaning against the wall by the door. This could get embarrassing.

As you pass by him on the way out, you subconsciously brace yourself for that hit of sandalwood, but it doesn’t come. Instead, the bite of citrus catches you off guard and almost off-balance as you narrowly avoid running into the doorframe. Okay, maybe you’re a little more than tipsy. As you exchange slightly awkward nods with your team’s Spy, the cogs in your brain have already started turning, your near-concussion forgotten. You were definitely fantasizing about Spy, you think, trying your hardest to ignore your mild embarrassment, but you work with him. You live in the same _hallway._ There’s no way you’d get the scent wrong. Was it the cigarettes throwing you off? No, you can tell the difference between those and cologne. So what-

Your gaze catches on a closed butterfly knife resting on your window ledge.

Your first day on the job. A steadily growing pool of blood inching closer to your shoes where you crouch next to a dying man. A confiscated knife resting heavy in your pocket. The smell of sandalwood and vetiver. _Motherfucker._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew bitch :^)
> 
> (Also, fun fact. Spy's cologne is Oud Wood by Tom Ford.)


	4. Chapter 4

On the whole, you don’t feel you have much to thank the Administrator for, but ceasefire days certainly seem to be an exception. The dog days of summer have finally set in, slowly baking everyone in the New Mexico heat, and Demo and Engie of all people put their heads together and come up with a plan to create a swimming pool in the wide-open area behind the base. You and Heavy both elect to stay inside as they blow holes in the empty lot (you’re already in civvies and Heavy has a migraine), and you occasionally glance out the barred-over windows to check their progress.

Heavy’s likely holed up in his room, so you’ve pretty much got the run of the base to yourself. As such, you’re not really sure what to do with yourself. So many choices! You go from the kitchen to the gym to your room to the kitchen again, and you’re about to open a closet with a few spare books tucked away on the top shelf when you suddenly remember Scout telling you in a low, devious tone about a room he’s only been in once.

He’d been laying upside down on your bed, bare feet propped up on the wall and head hanging off the edge as he talked, gesturing expansively despite none of the gestures being right-side-up. “Nah, I’m not bullshittin’! Spy has his own room _that isn’t his bedroom.”_

“Shut up,” you’d scoffed, but you’d still turned to look at Scout as you put away folded clothes, waiting for him to go on.

“’s true! It’s like a sitting room, like the kind fancy people have. He’s got, like, a whole buncha bookshelves in there and a _fireplace_ and _chairs_ and stuff, it’s- “

“Scout, c’mon, you’re pullin’ my leg now.”

“Hundred percent, God as my witness.”

This had gotten your attention. Scout’s a lot of things, but he’s always done his best to be the good Catholic boy his ma raised him as. He wouldn’t have taken an oath like that if he wasn’t serious. He had sat back upright then, face all earnestness and eyes round and big as saucers, and you made your own promise to God then and there that if he did the “scout’s honour” hand gesture, you’d throw a pair of socks at him. You did finally break the charged silence and huff out a breath, rolling your eyes. Goddamn if your interest wasn’t piqued though, and you knew that Scout had seen straight through you from the way he was grinning.

A library with a fireplace, all to himself. Fuck the book cupboard, you wanna see _that._ It’s honestly kind of shameful, how little convincing it takes you. You set off towards the room you know is Spy’s, but along the way, you wonder if it’s really going to be that easy. Surely he’d go out of his way to hide a room that nice? God, if only you’d thought to ask Scout for directions that day.

Stop in front of Spy’s door, go for the handle- and oh. It’s locked. Probably should’ve seen that one coming.

“Looking for someone?”

You’re not proud of the shriek that leaves you, but in your defence, you’re pretty sure your soul also just left your body, too. Spy’s walking casually down the hallway, hands in his pockets. He doesn’t seem at all perturbed by you trying to surreptitiously open his door without even knocking. Instead, he brushes past you as you gape like a fish, trying to find a good excuse and falling short. "I- I thought you were outside," you offer lamely as he unlocks the door with ease. Stepping back, he responds, "It was a little too hot for my liking. _Après vous."_ He gestures through the doorway to you. Eh, what the hell. You’re not looking this gift horse in the mouth.

You’ve never seen into Spy’s room before, but you’re already impressed. He’s got better taste than Scout does, that’s for sure. Instead of walking directly into his bedroom, you’re standing in an office. No fireplace, though, and only two bookshelves. Dammit. Spy correctly reads your expression as being one of overall surprise. “Not what you were expecting?” he asks, stepping out of his suit jacket and hanging it on a coat stand next to the door. “I- no, not at all! It’s very nice, though. Classy,” you offer, feeling the bizarre need to avert your eyes after seeing a flash of a wrist between the button down and the gloves. Wait a second, was that ink?

Spy’s already halfway across the room by the time you manage to get your brain back online. He’s by a side door, trying out one of the keys on his keyring and grumbling in indistinct French when it doesn’t work, flipping to a new one and making a little “aha!” sound when the lock clicks. You smile without meaning to. It’s a cute noise. He does a funny little half-bow, ushering you through the door with a tiny smile, and if you return it with the barest hints of a blush, that’s no one’s business but yours.

Oh, this is the room Scout was talking about. Lined with dark oak and plush red velvet seating, the room feels intimate despite the size. Bookshelves line the back wall, a crackling fireplace set between them. A phonograph tucked away in a corner is just begging to be played, and you’re practically vibrating with excitement as you take in and consider the room in front of you. Your feet move of their own accord, first taking you to the chess table against one wall, then to the solitary wingback chair in the centre of the room, then to the tear-inducing collection of alcohol on the other side of the room. Boxed wine is not even a _thought_ that should be had in the presence of these vintages.

A smooth voice cuts through your worshipful reverie. “Impressive, _non?”_ Spy glides past you to look at the bottles, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling them up neatly as he ponders the bottles in front of him. Words have fled you for the hundredth time this afternoon, this time because of the bold black lines up the length of his arms: first his left, then his right as he rolls his other sleeve up. You’re not sure _what_ you’re feeling right now, but there sure is a lot of it. Certainly nothing involving that ink and your mouth. He looks back in time to catch you staring. “I didn’t know you could get tattoos,” you say, your eyes not leaving his bare skin. He chuckles, a velvet sound in a velvet room, selecting a wine bottle off the rack and snagging two glasses off of a nearby side table. “It is not recommended for someone of my profession, but youth is a powerful drug. Care for a drink?” You’re honestly on the verge of swooning right now.

“Not to sound overdramatic, but I’d honestly probably kill a man for some of that.” There’s a snort and an _“c'est suffisant,”_ followed by a tap on your shoulder. Accepting the proffered glass with a nod of thanks, you take a sip and have to battle back tears. It’s _glorious._ “Oh Spy, I could cry. Really, I could. Seriously, what do I owe you for this?” you ask jokingly. You almost drop your glass in shock when he takes your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles, murmuring against them, “A dance, perhaps?”

Your brain fizzles out for a moment, processing what Spy just said. You- you’ve never- well, other than that one time you were a little drunk, but in your defence, you can barely remember- ah, what the hell. You manage a tiny “yes”, knowing the flush coating your cheeks confirmed your answer long before you said it. His responding rakish grin has your stomach flip-flopping, and you can feel your hand shake almost imperceptibly when he gently takes your wine glass from it and sets it on the table next to the wingback. As you watch, he crosses to the phonograph and drops the needle onto the record already on deck, and the song that warbles out is… surprising. An intense yet poignant acoustic guitar strain fights through the haze of vinyl crackle, tugging at your heartstrings with its bittersweet melody. Without another word, Spy takes your hand and sweeps you into his arms. A gasp escapes you as his right hand curls around your waist, the other holding yours aloft almost delicately. Spy has watched you crush a grown man’s windpipe with this hand. Yet he’s holding it now like a robin’s egg, fragile and breakable under his fingertips, before stepping into your space. Instinctively your hand goes to his shoulder, finding the firm line of muscle there.

As the melody starts up again, Spy begins to guide you around the room in an easy waltz, swaying with you as though you’ve done this a million times, and you can feel the tension beginning to drop out of your body. You’re a little surprised by the familiarity, actually. Somehow, it goes both ways. It does make sense that your Spy would know you, the way you moved; half of his job is observation, after all. You’re trying to work out how exactly you know _him_ so well when a chuckle brings you back to reality.

“Overthinking a dance, are we?” he asks, arching an eyebrow down at you. You give a breathless little laugh and blink hard. “Just a little,” you admit, looking down at your feet for a moment. Spy gives you a smile—not a grin or a smirk like you’re used to seeing on him, but an honest, warm smile, the kind that makes his eyes crinkle at the corner—and you can feel yourself melt in his arms like lovestruck butter. Briefly he frees a hand from yours and pushes your hair away from your face, then leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead. “I’ve got you, _amoureux.”_

For just a moment, the world shrinks down to one room. There is nothing but you, the man holding you in his arms, and the romantic, melancholic guitar from the corner. Without thinking, you rest your head on Spy’s chest, breathing in the smell of amber and sandalwood. His grip goes iron for just a millisecond, readjusting so you’re still comfortably draped in his arms. For just this moment, everything is alright.

You’re not sure when you closed your eyes, but as you blink them back open, you let yourself stare absentmindedly at the walls, the blue of Spy’s waistcoat blurring in the foreground.

Wait.

You jerk back and look at Spy. From head to toe, he’s wearing blue. Oh God, has he been BLU this whole time? You’re opening your mouth to say something, anything, you’re not sure what, when the door opens with a _BANG_ behind you. You can’t look away, not even as Soldier tackles the BLU Spy to the ground, not even as the actual RED Spy puts a bullet between his eyes. As Heavy sincerely asks if you’re okay, apologizing for not noticing that the RED Spy that entered the base was an impostor, you’re still looking right through him. Spy, the real RED Spy, takes one look at your face and knows what damage has been done. He’s been the cause of that look multiple times himself.

The BLU Spy’s expression is still on your mind that evening, after you’ve waved goodnight to Scout and gone to your room, turning the lock behind you and remembering the look in his eyes. You were expecting smugness. You really did think he’d be gloating over having conned you so thoroughly. Instead, he just looked… sad. A little regretful. As your team’s Spy was pulling out his revolver, his eyes seemed to say, “It was too good to last anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations as follows:  
>  _ **après vous-**_ after you  
>  _ **c'est suffisant-**_ fair enough  
>  _ **amoureux-**_ sweetheart
> 
> Got a lil' sad in that one! If you guessed that the song is the Spanish guitar song "Romanza", you'd be right! If you're a My Chemical Romance fan, you've definitely heard it before- it was used as the opening track of _Bullets._ That song's been around since the early 1900s, so I figured it was fair play to use in this fic.  
> Next chapter will be out in two days as usual!
> 
> I almost forgot, if you want to come say hi I'm [viticomae](https://viticomae.tumblr.com) on Tumblr. Thank you! Xx  
> ps. If you're wondering why there was no _whoosh,_ it's because Spy's watch makes that noise, not his disguise kit.


	5. Chapter 5

The BLU Spy is five yards away and trapped like a fish in a barrel. When his eyes meet yours, you can see him brace for what’s coming next. _Steady your firing hand. Aim for the heart._ He’s dead to rights. You lower your gun.

You know he knows. He’s not stupid, he’s shot a person before. He knows you could’ve killed him where he stood, and he’d definitely be dead right now. But he isn’t, and you didn’t, and you’re not sure why you’re leaving. Now he’s just going to go and stab one of your teammates anyway. _Why did you just do that?_

You’re lost in your own head for the remainder of your short life. Now it’s your turn to be backed into a metaphorical corner, trying to fend off a Scout with nothing but an empty magazine and a broken leg, and even when you’ve got him breathing his last on the pavement, you swear you can hear the universe laughing as a _whoosh_ whispers behind you in the windless alley you’re still effectively stranded in.

 _“Désolée, chanteuse,”_ the BLU Spy whispers in your ear, stepping in close behind you and pulling you up straight, deftly flicking out his balisong and holding it to your throat. And God, isn’t this a familiar feeling. In your first moment of utter clarity since letting him go, you become hyperaware of a rage burning just under your sternum and a fluttering in the pit of your stomach. This is the closest you’ve been to him in over a week.

“I must commend your work, though, _mon_ _aimée._ Taking down a Scout in close quarters with nothing but one bullet and an empty pistol, _très impressionnant._ And barely standing upright! _Digne d'éloges,_ truly.” God, ordinarily you love French, but today it’s starting to piss you off. Does he think you’ve taken lessons or something?

Growling in annoyance, you attempt to elbow him in the stomach, but to call it half-hearted would be kind. You both know you’re not trying to escape. You could reason it away by blaming your broken leg and calling this a mercy kill, but it’s just you and him now. There’s no space for a lie, no matter how small, in the hairsbreadth between the two of you right now. Memories of red wine and melancholic guitar swim through your head, but you push them away. You haven’t dealt with those emotions once in the 11 days and 8 hours it’s been since that night, and you’re not about to do it now, no matter how familiar Spy’s arm feels around your waist.

Despite how pathetic your attempt at self-defence was, he still rewards your efforts with just an inch’s rotation in his wrist. A necklace of ruby drops beads up across your jugular. “Play nicely, _chérie,_ we have company.” A glance down the alley and sure enough, the enemy Medic is standing there, bonesaw waiting in hand. Spy’s gloved thumb strokes along an exposed patch of skin along your stomach as a sort of bizarre apology. The tenderness of the invisible gesture catches you off guard. “You’re still a bastard,” you hiss without much venom, and you can feel his amused chuckle more so than hear it as he slits your throat.

You can still taste the blood in your mouth when you respawn, and you’re not sure why you’re laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MA! Spy's using French as a shield again >:/  
>  _ **Désolée, chanteuse-**_ sorry, songbird (yes, this is a reference to Hadestown)  
>  _ **mon aimée-**_ my beloved (not to be confused with _mon amie!)_  
>  _ **très impressionnant-**_ very impressive  
>  _ **digne d'éloges-**_ worthy of praise
> 
> Five down, one to go! As usual, I'm [viticomae](https://viticomae.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr if you'd like to say hello.  
> Thank you! Xx


	6. Chapter 6

This isn’t a good idea. You know this even as you’re stumbling into an unfamiliar room, you know this as you make quick work of a deep blue tie. You’ve made a mistake, you think, as the scents of vetiver and sandalwood fill your nose. This is a choice that’s going to come back to bite both of you- oh, speaking of biting, you’ve got Spy’s balaclava hitched up to his jaw and the temptation of that much unmarred neck is a bit too much for you. His responding groan manages to push any thoughts of impending doom out of your head for the time being.

It returns in flashes as you strip Spy out of his shirt and seize your opportunity to lick and kiss up the lines of his tattoos; again as he pulls a glove off with his teeth without looking away from your face; once more as he litters kisses delicately down your sternum and featherlight across your ribs. This could all be a big honeypot trap in and of itself, but if that’s the case, your lover might be overcommitting to the bit. Spy moves from between your legs, crawling back up your body with the grace of a big cat to steal a kiss that tastes like you. It’s definitely getting harder and harder to pay due mind to your worries. Spy’s dexterous fingers and wicked mouth, nudging along your jawline, are _excellent_ distractions.

 _“Allez bien, mon coeur?”_ he murmurs sweetly, trying to distract you from the brief sting of pain as it evens out into something more pleasurable. You dig your nails up his back in response, smiling at the ceiling when he hisses in pain, even when his hips jerk. You’re not in this for kindness, there’s no time for taking things slow. And yet despite this, he’s still taking his sweet time. Iron softens to silk every time he touches you. You bite the juncture of his shoulder, hard enough to draw blood, trying to get your annoyance across. Judging by the way he moans and twitches inside you, that’s less of an inconvenience than you thought. About to snap out some passive-aggressive comment about his reaction, you’re stopped short by his eyes. Out of the blue, tears fog the corners of your vision and you can’t look away. With seemingly great effort, he slows the rhythm of his hips to a crawl, then in one smooth manoeuvre takes you from below him to above. Huh. You don’t think you’ve ever made _that_ noise before. You let your head hang for a moment, letting yourself readjust, trying not to think about the sudden change any harder than you need to. This doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s not romance if it’s just fucking. Nobody else needs to kn-

A gentle hand on your cheek snaps you out of the spiral of your thoughts. _“Amoureux…_ just this one night. Please.” And goddamn, he’s looking at you like he’s never going to see you again. His heart is plain to see on every line of his bare face, and all of a sudden you can’t stand how naked you feel in this moment. A noise that sounds suspiciously like a sob fights its way out of your throat. Just this once, just this once you kiss him properly: slow and deep, like you mean it. Like you’ve meant to for a while now. Because stripped down to brass tacks, to bloodied knuckles, to losing bets, the truth still holds up: you two always would’ve ended up here. You might never be here again, though, and your heart’s aching with the desire for honesty, something beyond just yearning and fighting and hurting. You can tell Spy feels the same way. Has he ever even said please around you before? He’s saying it a _lot_ right now though, and he’s being kind of whiny and squirmy about it, too. It’s about more than just you moving your hips, you know this, but that seems like a good place to start. So you lean down to kiss him once more, and just for this one night, you take a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last round of translations, on the house!  
>  _ **allez bien, mon coeur? -**_ everything okay, my love?  
>  _ **amoureux-**_ sweetheart/lover
> 
> YES, this crept to 5k words without me noticing, what of it? Thank you so much for reading and also for commenting! Seriously, every comment left along the way was so nice and made me feel like the mortifying ordeal of committing my desires to words was worth it.  
> Because I am an clown™, I've already begun my next Foolish Decision: a Medic Demon!AU where you, our beloved reader, are the demon Medic sold his soul to, and you help him come up with a plan to avoid dying after you fall in love with him. I'm torn between writing all of it in advance, like I did with this fic, or just going by the seat of my pants. Anyway, keep your peepers peepin' for that.  
> Also I have a new url, I'm [wingfics](https://wingfics.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr!
> 
> Thank you! Xx


End file.
